


lovely kiss

by okapi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Have Their Picnic (Good Omens), Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley grows orchids, Crowley's Wrestling Statue (Good Omens), Food, M/M, Oral Sex, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Post-Episode: Good Omens: Lockdown, Shakespearean Sonnets, Sweet, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:01:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24451033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: During lockdown, Aziraphale and Crowley have an indoor picnic.Sweet smut.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 105
Collections: Dick or Treat - Scrohto Region





	lovely kiss

**Author's Note:**

> For 2020 Dick or Treat.

“Crowley, it’s Aziraphale.”

“I know, angel.”

“Did I wake you? You said you were going to sleep through the lockdown. Or at least until July.”

“I did go to sleep, but then I woke up to go to the loo, and on the way back to bed, I popped my head in the plant room. Now, I’m waiting for my _ophrys bombyliflora_ to bloom.”

“Crowley, you aren’t threatening it, are you?”

“No, I took your advice to heart. I am experimenting with a system of positive reinforcement. I remind her, often, that if she blooms, like her neighbour the lovely _cattleya labiata_ did last month, she’ll get her picture on a postage stamp, and if she doesn’t, well…”

“Crowley.”

“…but you didn’t call me to talk about orchids, did you, angel? What’s on your mind?”

“This lockdown.”

“Yeah, it sucks hairy Satan’s bollocks”

“Indeed. I’ve gotten over the initial euphoria of having no customers and the subsequent satisfaction of making a significant dent in my reading, but now I’m feeling restless, listless, and, well, Crowley-less.”

“I did offer to hunker down there, angel. You weren’t keen on the idea.”

“Yes, well, that. I’ve come to realise that what I really need in addition to, uh, your company is a project. Not a big project, mind you. Not stopping Armageddon or finding a misplaced Antichrist or anything like that, but something small, something to work towards, something to anticipate with pleasure. So, to that end, what would say to you and I having a picnic? Inside the bookshop, of course. I wouldn’t want to set a bad example for the humans.”

“You’re an angel, Aziraphale. I don’t think you can set a bad example, except maybe in your devotion to tartan.”

“Crowley!”

“A picnic sounds nice. I’ll pick up a crate of something drinkable and come right over.”

“No, no. In a week. I’ll send you a formal invitation. You can RSVP. Oh, won’t that be nice? I love getting post!”

“A week! Oh, hell, angel, I don’t want to stay awake for a week!”

“Three days? I want something to look forward to, Crowley. I want to plan the menu and shop for a smart hamper and the perfect blanket…”

“All right, all right. Three days, angel.”

* * *

“’… _For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings_

 _That then I scorn to change my state with kings_.’”

Aziraphale sighed and turned the book face-down on the picnic blanket.

“You know, Crowley, I really think that was one of your best.”

Crowley smiled demonically because that was the only way he could smile. “Thieving, eavesdropping bastard bard. After what I did for Hamlet! They ought to be called Crowleyan sonnets.”

Crowley was reclining on a lush green carpet of grass that he had snapped into being soon after he arrived at the bookshop with a case of Château Haut Brion 1928.

Aziraphale was sitting on the picnic blanket in the pose of a heroine of a Victorian novel whilst digging into the dark wicker hamper with the gold hinges

“This turned out beautifully,” he sighed.

“The picnic?” prompted Crowley.

“Well, yes, but I was specifically referring to this fig and serrano ham picnic bread when it’s smothered every so lightly with goat cheese.” Aziraphale spread the latter on the former and popped it into his mouth and hummed. “But, also, the picnic. It’s so good to see you again, Crowley. I’m so glad you could make it.”

Crowley chuckled. “As if I’d miss this. I even RSVP’ed.” It was a little-bit-good-natured complaint because Crowley’s nature was, Aziraphale knew, just a little bit good.

“But you have other claims on your time.”

“I think the humans are making a fairly good muck of things without me.”

“True, but I do think it’s a wonder, you FaceZooming your plant, so you don’t miss the bloom.”

Both glanced at the phone on the stand at the far edge of the grass. The screen was filled with the image of a delicate stem bearing three delicate leaves.

“She’s a stubborn lass, I’ll give her that,” said Crowley. He pushed up onto bent elbows, reached for his wine glass, and took a sip.

“I know you won’t try a Smoked Salmon Scotch Egg.”

“No, thanks, angel. And one glass of that,” Crowley waved his hand at the glass carafe, “was ample.”

“Elderflower and cucumber gin and tonic. Very refreshing. How ‘bout one of these? Pastéis de nata. Miniature Portuguese custard tarts.”

Crowley hummed. “Maybe just a tiny bite of yours.”

“Really?” In his excitement, Aziraphale near broke his perfect pose. “Here, here.” He leaned forward offering the small pastry to Crowley, who bit and chewed and declared,

“Not bad.”

Aziraphale beamed, then swiftly gobbled up the rest of the tart.

In between nibbles and sips and reading Crowleyan sonnet aloud, Aziraphale blew soap bubbles, which Crowley popped. He also showed off his fledging juggling skills, at which Crowley tried valiantly, and failed valiantly, not to cringe or criticise. Then Crowley and Aziraphale played a surprisingly heated game of lawn darts; it was so heated, in fact, that Aziraphale, in the final round, actually deigned to remove his jacket and roll up his shirtsleeves.

Crowley won, of course.

They ended up on the grass, with Crowley’s head in Aziraphale’s lap, Aziraphale reading aloud and playing with Crowley’s hair.

“It’s getting long again,” observed Aziraphale as he twirled a ginger curl round his finger and tugged.

“Yeah, well, no one else’s getting a haircut, why should I?”

“I like it.”

Crowley met Aziraphale’s gaze. His expression was so soft that Aziraphale couldn’t help but say,

“ _Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?_

 _Thou art more lovely and more temperate_.”

Aziraphale caressed Crowley’s face. His jaw, his chin, his nose, his cheekbones. All his angles. They were so lovely, and he loved every one of them.

This was part of it, of course, part of the whole plan from the beginning. For Aziraphale, the past three days had been the most splendid since the whole dismal business of lockdown had begun. He’d been thoroughly engrossed in selecting the hamper and the blanket, a very stylish tartan, and setting the menu.

But he’d also had fun fantasing about the seduction of one Anthony J. Crowley. And the loving of him, too, naturally. Aziraphale, by his nature, could not separate the two.

Did Crowley understand that? Of course, he did. He understood everything. Long before, as in six thousand years before, Aziraphale did.

“ _Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May.”_

It wasn’t a great reach to Crowley’s nipples, which Aziraphale knew, were sensitive. Aziraphale slipped his hand beneath the black shirt, found the darling buds, and teased each one to pebbling.

“ _And summer’s lease hath all too short a date_.”

Crowley brought his hands to the front of his shirt, but Aziraphale gently batted them away and unbuttoned Crowley’s shirt himself.

“Let me.”

“All right. You know you had me the moment you unbuttoned the third waistcoat button to play lawn darts.”

“Don’t remind me of that, Crowley. I’m still very cross that you cheated!”

“I’m a demon! I’m not supposed to play fair!”

As they bickered, Aziraphale unfolded from his sitting position and set Crowley’s head down on the grass.

Then he crawled down Crowley’s body, kissing him from Adam’s, that is to say, Crowley’s apple to navel, once more paying special attention to his nipples.

Aziraphale dipped his fingers into Crowley’s wine glass. Then he proceeded to drip red drops onto Crowley’s nipples. He bent his head and then licked Crowley clean.

Crowley brought one of Aziraphale’s hands to his mouth. He kissed the top of it, then he put the tip of Aziraphale’s index finger into his mouth.

Crowley’s tongue could do weird, that is to say, weirdly wonderful things to every part of Aziraphale, no matter what shape either of them was inhabiting. Crowley’s tongue licked and flicked and set every fibre of Aziraphale’s being afire.

Aziraphale pressed his face into the softness of Crowley’s belly and moaned. He kissed Crowley’s skin and reluctantly withdrew his hand from Crowley’s grasp.

Black leather is not the most forgiving of fabrics, but there was a noticeable bulge at Crowley’s crotch.

Aziraphale crawled forward and nuzzled it.

“I can’t seem to recall that being on the menu,” teased Crowley, with a flattering strain in his voice, “must’ve been slipped in between the scotch eggs and the G & T’s, somewhere between the figs and tarts, I suppose.”

Aziraphale struggled to remember. What was that phrase? Oh, if he got it wrong it might spoil the mood. Jeans? Breeches? Chinos? Dungarees?

“It’s trousers, love,” supplied Crowley. “No one says ‘dungarees snake.’”

That was it!

“Trouser snake,” said Aziraphale, with a satisfied smile, then he licked at Crowley’s bulge from base to head.

And because it is much easier to miracle a pair of leather trousers off than to remove them, especially when the wearer favours a cut as slim as Crowley does, Crowley snapped his fingers, and Aziraphale found himself eye-to-eye with Crowley’s naked penis.

What few gaps the Portland Place club had left in Aziraphale’s knowledge of fellatio had soon been filled by Crowley himself in the time since he and Aziraphale had thwarted the Apocalypse.

Aziraphale sucked. And bobbed. And rubbed Crowley’s thighs, hips, and buttocks.

“Angel, angel, angel…”

Crowley’s hands were in Aziraphale’s hair. Then he cupped his hands, holding Aziraphale’s head, and Aziraphale correctly interpreted this as Crowley asking for him to be still, which Aziraphale readily did.

Then Aziraphale’s beloved demon fucked his mouth and recited aloud,

_Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,_

_And often is his gold complexion dimmed;_

_And every fair from fair sometime declines,_

_By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimmed;_

Aziraphale’s eyes were closed; the pads of his fingers dug into Crowley’s buttocks. He felt the rhythmic intrusion of Crowley’s cock and the rubbing of Crowley’s thumbs against his cheeks, but mostly, he heard Crowley’s words.

_But thy eternal summer shall not fade,_

_Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,_

_Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,_

_When in eternal lines to Time thou grow'st._

_So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,_

_So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.”_

Crowley groaned the final syllable and spent.

Aziraphale pulled off gently and moved to the side of Crowley. He reached for his gin and tonic and, after few mouth-cleansing gulps, said,

“When a poem is read by the author, there’s always a certain something.”

“I believe my certain something just went down your throat, angel,” gurgled Crowley, who looked rather wrecked. Aziraphale knew his demon felt as wrecked as he looked because he rolled onto his side, taking a corner of the picnic blanket with him, and reached for his sunglasses to hide his eyes.

Aziraphale studied the back of Crowley’s form, half nude, half covered in stylish tartan, and felt a swell of mixed emotions.

Finally, lust won out, and he asked,

“Can we do it again, Crowley?”

“Uh. Yeah. Give us a mo’”

“Of course. In the meantime, I can practice my juggling.”

Crowley rolled quickly back to face Aziraphale, smirking. “Oh, will you look at that! I’m ready to go!”

Aziraphale returned the smirk, then he leaned forward and yanked Crowley’s sunglasses off his face. “And here I was going to suggest that I might let evil triumph, but, no, good is definitely going to triumph.”

Aziraphale saw the full-bodied shudder that went through Crowley.

“You’re on, angel.”

* * *

The nude body revealed as Aziraphale divested himself of his clothing had muscular definition far more pronounced than might’ve been supposed by his clothed exterior.

That is to say, Aziraphale was ripped. When he wanted to be. Which was now.

The hamper was packed leftovers, and the blanket was neatly folded and stowed.

And then angel and demon faced each other with hawk-like wings extended.

“No cheating,” warned Aziraphale.

“Demon, remember?” countered Crowley with a shrug.

Somewhere a bell rang, and they sprang.

And they wrestled.

From grass to ceiling and back.

Finally, they plummeted together.

Aziraphale had Crowley pinned, with the demon’s arm twisted behind him.

“You win,” panted Crowley.

Out of breath, Aziraphale could not immediately respond in words. He chose to nudge an inquiring finger between Crowley’s buttocks.

“Oh, yes!”

Without loosening his hold on Aziraphale’s arm, Aziraphale brought his erect cock, for after three days’ consideration he’d decided that he wanted to wear a cock to the picnic, to Crowley’s cleft.

Fucking Crowley’s arse felt so good. He was nice and tight and hot and squirmed so deliciously beneath Aziraphale’s thrusting.

Aziraphale soon found the perfect rhythm.

“Better than a Smoked Salmon Scotch Egg,” he said.

“You try buggering one of those, angel, and you’re liable to end up with crumbs where you’d rather not have them. But I agree with you. I’ve been hoping for a good rogering since this whole lockdown began.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“I did. You shot me down!”

“You could’ve been more specific.”

“I suppose. I didn’t want to intrude.”

“Oh, there is a little bit of good in you, Crowley.”

Crowley snorted, and his tone became dry. “Don’t shortchange yourself, angel. The good in me right now is not so little. But it feels hellishly good.”

Aziraphale stopped thrusting and twisted Crowley’s arm harder.

“Sorry, angel! _Ethereally_ good.”

“That’s better.”

Aziraphale abandoned words and focused on slamming over and over in Crowley until he found his release.

When Aziraphale pulled out, Crowley fell forward, his wings retracting. Aziraphale followed, rubbing Crowley’s arm.

“I’m fine, angel, I’m fine.”

Aziraphale slid behind Crowley on the grass and threw his arm and leg over him. He whispered into Crowley’s hair.

“Let me suck you off one more time, please.”

To Aziraphale’s surprise, Crowley turned and asked sharply,

“Angel, are we going to stay together for the rest of lockdown?”

“If you want.”

“I do. Mine or yours or both. I don’t care.”

“Okay.”

“Good.”

Crowley smiled. Aziraphale smiled.

Crowley ran a very knowing hand over Aziraphale’s body and said, “Maybe I’ll plan my own little picnic.”

Aziraphale blushed. Then he leaned forward and kissed Crowley’s cheek. “May I, Crowley, please?”

Aziraphale felt Crowley go boneless. Well, almost boneless.

“Satan’s bollocks, you’re a horny little angel, aren’t you?”

Aziraphale nodded. “Picnic.”

“I’m definitely planning my own, then. All right, go ahead.”

Crowley rolled onto his back, and Aziraphale pounced.

* * *

“Oh, Crowley, look!”

They weren’t doing much of anything, except lying tangled on the grass, when Aziraphale happened to glance at Crowley’s mobile.

“I think something’s happened, Crowley. It’s rotted!”

“No, she’s bloomed!”

They crawled toward the screen.

“That’s the flower?” asked Aziraphale.

“Yes,” said Crowley, nodding. “It’s called ‘a laughing bumblebee orchid.’ Well done, m’lady!”

Aziraphale watched Crowley and smiled.

It had been a lovely day.

Then Crowley turned his head and looked at Aziraphale.

And Aziraphale prepared himself for a lovely kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! All the recipes are real and can be found googling BBC Food + picnic.


End file.
